


The Truth Unravels

by Notfunctioningshipper



Series: Satan! Crowley or The Hidden Truth [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "a bit more serious than the last one", "but i'm in love with this concept", "hope you like it!", "i think it'll be three parts?", "next comes the past", "poor crowley", Angst and Humor, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is Satan (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dark Past, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Trust, Understanding, heh, idek, it's not as bad as it seems, wow these tags, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-05-29 18:17:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19405606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notfunctioningshipper/pseuds/Notfunctioningshipper
Summary: Crowley is forced to open up about the past. He had it coming.





	1. Chapter 1

Anathema Device always had had her own mind (even though Agnes Nutter had always known what choice her descendant would make, and had sent empty rolls of parchment, she would have been delighted to see things unraveling not unlike she would have foreseen herself). This is why it surprised nobody, really, when she barged into Crowley’s flat a week after the supposed “End of the World” and started loading every plant in his apartment into Dick Turpin, the car’s name being something she’d rather grown fond of. The notorious-yet-unknown King of Hell, on the other hand, was rather vehemently trying to stop her.

“Do you even know how to take care of plants?” he hissed, not sure how he should behave around the witch. After all, she was still acting as if he were just a fellow human and not literally Satan himself, and maybe, just maybe, he should cherish that. 

“Do _you_? These plants are closer to dying of fear than being alive and thriving. No, I think they’ll enjoy some time out”, she said confidently, glasses askew, as she shuffled out with the last planter. Okay, screw being appreciative, how dare she insult his gardening skills. He was an occult, more than six-thousand-year-old being, he deserved some respect, didn’t he?

“Come back here you little witch or-“, before he could make a fool of himself, because he hadn’t really thought about what to threaten her with, he felt a presence next to him and halted mid-sentence.

“Thank you, dear, for being so helpful”, the angel next to him smiled and proceeded to give Crowley a cold, unforgiving glare. The latter took a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding and relented. It had been a week since Aziraphale had stood this close to him and expressed more than the occasional huff. All he had done was stand in his living room and study him, all day. As if Crowley was planning something and he was trying to figure out what. The demon guessed there might be forgiveness or understanding waiting somewhere for him, if now was the exact moment he’d shown up. After all, he had been hiding in this room, letting out all his frustrations on the Aloe Vera, as if the plant could heal him, and somehow heal this mess he had made again.

“Alright. Don’t spoil them too much.” His grumble went unheard as Newton hit the gas pedal the moment Anathema sat in the seat next to him. The Device’s were naturally very hard to faze but Newton had had his share of supernatural happenings for his entire life. Poor Dick Turpin’s pickup was facing more pressure in a day than it had in its entire life as well.

The moment the odd, yet endearing couple left, an eerie quiet overtook the apartment once more. Crowley was about to lose his mind completely. They stopped the apocalypse but he didn’t think this would be the cost. He wasn’t ready to start over, to carry his burden alone. He was so caught up in his thoughts; he didn’t sense the atmosphere of the room shifting to something... something softer. Something, that felt like a wounded animal presenting its injury to the original perpetrator.

“Do you know what Agnes Nutter’s last prophecy was, my boy?” the unexpected question hung in the air. The one who asked it wouldn’t look at him directly. The dejected tone in the heavenly voice made Crowley’s heart ache, in a different way than it had before. Not talking to each other had been different. He had clung to the hope that it wouldn’t take a confrontation for this to just be over. A century, perhaps two. But not this. He couldn’t take the hurt, the disappointment that clouded his angel’s lovely features. There was darkness in those eyes he never wished to see, ever. And he had put it there. He only had himself to blame for it.

“I was just trying to do the-“ “Do you?” Aziraphale repeated the same words Anathema had just said minutes earlier, but this time it was different. The undertone made the demon’s spine jump, his eyes caught on a sight that forced him to fight to remain in his human form, the snake part of him trying to take over and slither away from this danger.

For the first time in millennia, Crowley was afraid of Aziraphale. He had always known angels were just as fearsome and dangerous as demons, if not more, but Aziraphale had never seemed like them. He was ruthless at times, pledged himself to follow Heaven’s orders no matter what, but never towards him. Now, his corporeal form was glowing, a thousand eyes piercing through his demonic soul (he wasn’t sure if he still had one. He didn’t think demons did).

However, the moment the angel noticed the real fear in his adversary’s face, all the power and the light that was manifesting around him drained away. He sighed so deeply, it felt as if the ground underneath was rumbling with him. Crowley had never seen Aziraphale lose control over his powers this much since the beginning, as he had just in the span of a week after the failed Armageddon.

“She said to choose your face wisely.” Crowley shook his head.

“I’m sorry but I don’t understand.”

“ **When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre”,** the angel recited with ease. Then he turned towards the other man in the room. Time slowed to a stop.

“All this time, Crowley. We've spent six thousand years give or take, on this earth. All this time I thought I knew you”, Aziraphale’s voice broke on the last syllable and so did the devil’s heart. Before he could intervene and defend himself, the angelic voice continued:

“But apparently I don’t. Tell me, oh King of All Demons, Great Serpent of Eden, which one is your true face? Because I don’t think I understand anything anymore.” He didn’t manage to keep out the bitterness in his tone during the last sentence.

Said serpent had never felt so old ever since he was created. The weight of the world had been on his shoulders and all he had ever done was pass it on to his son and everyone else he ever cared for, apparently.

“I owe you an explanation then. It’ll take a while. Let’s sit down, shall we?”

He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. It was such a human gesture, such a _Crowley_ thing to do, that even if the demon didn’t notice it, it soothed his friend greatly.

And so they sat, as Anthony J. Crowley started to tell the story of how he ended up in a luxurious apartment in England instead of on the fiery throne of hell. The time to play with fire had come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it comes! Finally the conclusion to the question: How did Crowley become Satan?

Time might have actually stopped again for not a single noise was to be heard in the London flat Crowley regarded as a home nowadays. Of course, he spent more time in Aziraphale’s bookshop than here but he figured the angel wouldn’t let him hang out there anymore. The unwanted thought left him stricken and he had to hold himself back from losing control, had to refrain from wearing his sunglasses again to hide the emotional turmoil inside that was threatening to undo him. He focused on one of the rare paintings he’d hung on the walls and took a deep breath. Leonardo would have frolicked at his state.

“Finalmente il demone s’è innamorato! Ma che bella pittura tu sei, Anthony.”* 

He still heard the Italian man’s soft laugh, still felt the loss of him after all this time. Sometimes you come close to someone who sees beauty the same way as you do and you feel understood. He hadn’t been able to reciprocate the man’s love the way he’d wanted to, but they had still remained on good terms. He never did find anybody like da Vinci in the past hundreds of years. But he had found someone very different before him.

Could he discorporate himself, he wondered for a brief moment, and decided that the paperwork that would come after succeeding wasn’t worth finding it out (maybe he could get out of it; he was the King of Hell). He peeked at the certain someone he’d discussed with his closest friend over five hundred years ago.

His angel was looking at him expectantly, if not hopefully. It almost reminded him of their regular meetups if it weren’t for the way the demon could see through Aziraphale’s masquerade, see how the corners of his mouth were turned down, how his usually so open demeanor looked guarded.

He was just as carefully composed as Crowley and it tugged at something in his chest. He pushed it away. It was time to finally tell his friend the truth; he would handle the grief another day. Were they still friends? Now was not the time to ask, he thought bitterly.

“I suppose you remember Lucifer?” he started with a forced joke and waited for a response. He didn’t get one. The following sigh could have been from either of them, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. (He cared so much, far more than he should have).

“Listen-“ “I do”, Aziraphale interrupted. The frown on the angel’s face didn’t suit him at all. He wanted to wipe it away, touch the stressed lines on his forehead, the crow’s feet next to the eyes that usually shone with enthusiasm. He wished he could.

“I thought Lucifer was supposed to be Satan.”

“Common misconception, really.”

This was already so complicated to begin with. How quickly could one explain six thousand years of misunderstandings and come out of it unharmed? He had watched a video once, titled ‘The history of the world’ or so and was left thoroughly impressed for the twenty minutes it played. It reminded him of the bigger happenings on the earth, things he’d just slept through or forgotten with time. 

He never really forgot. However, alcohol was his go-to cure for that. Maybe it was time for him to join a self-help group. He smiled at the thought of that.

The loud and not-inconspicuous-at-all cough that came from his vis-à-vis didn’t go unnoticed. He cursed, wishing that his past self had prepared a speech so that he could have just rattled off a pre-rehearsed story with the help of some funny effects.

What did the humans say nowadays? Beggars can’t be choosers. He remembered a German saying he’d taken a liking to, which pretty much meant the same but spoke to him more. “In der Not frisst der Teufel Fliegen.” In need, the devil eats flies. They weren’t so wrong about that. If things got that far, he preferred mice.

He noticed Aziraphale’s impatient wiggle and dropped the tension in his shoulders he wasn’t even aware of. Spines were quite an awful invention when you think about it.

Finally, he mumbled something almost inaudible to human ears. The huff he received in return only emphasized the ‘almost’.

“There’s a... lot to unpack”

“Now, my dear, don’t you think we’ve got the time?” the patience in the other man’s voice shattered something in him. He was a broken fountain, pipes having burst long ago but the water was still being held back. Until now, at least.

Six thousand years he had been hiding. It was eating away at him, like the maggots that had devoured the pest victims in the 14thcentury. He shuddered and almost felt them inside of him. He was rotten from the inside out, how could Aziraphale not see that? How could he look at him, his gaze unwavering and even despite his serious facade, trust seeping through the cracks of it? He felt like Orestes.

‘ _I’ll take care of you.’ ‘It’s rotten work.’ 'Not_ _to me. Not if it’s you.’_

He didn’t dare hope Aziraphale would be his Pylades. He didn’t. And yet.

“Do you ever think about how we just exist? In-between all these people, who all have their own lives, we’re leading our own lives filled with anger and grief and chocolate cakes and, and ... I don’t even know. I’ve wondered so often what the point was. Why didn’t She just come down to smite me?” he burst out, unable to control himself.

“Did you ever wonder why I was turned into a snake? I believe it’s the best joke She’s ever made. You know Lucifer. He was only the face of the rebellion. He was loud and boisterous and challenged anyone who dared to cross God’s favourite. But it was always me, asking things I shouldn’t have. Slithering in and out of meetings, my presence almost unnoticeable. Tempting others to question Her power. Who gave Her the right to choose our fates?”

He didn’t notice that he shouted the last sentence, that his throat was dry from speaking so fast, that in his agitation his sibilants were more pronounced, until a hand barely settled on his arm and jerked him back to reality, to his mortal body and slowly the memories of all those bleak and unending years faded back to the depths of his mind, where they haunted him in his sleep. He was sure that he was cursed to never find rest, to always think, to keep doubting until the end of days.

“Crowley, it seems that you’re losing yourself a bit”, the angel whispered softly without looking him in the eye, making him shake off his last stream of thought.

The dread that took over him after that observation made him shiver and sweat, made him wish there was a bottle of vodka lying around somewhere that he could down in an unnatural big gulp. Instead, he had to face the silence, had to be patient and wait. Oh, how he hated waiting. It burned him in a different way than alcohol did.

_Don’t ask too many questions, Crowley, time will answer them all._ Her almighty voice still rang in his ears. It would be the last thing he remembered hearing from Her.

If someone would have been able to look into the chic flat this conversation was taking place in, they would see two middle-aged men, one of them hunched over and looking considerably older than the other one. They would walk away thinking, how come the red-headed man’s face left them unsettled and made them question their life choices. It would come to them right before they’d find the warm cotton haziness of sleep. 

It was exhaustion written into the edges of his cheeks, the bags under his eyes, which were the colour of bruises, the kind that couldn’t even be cured on a three-week spa holiday. It was a man who had lived the entirety of his life making the best of regrets but never being able to hold onto joy for longer than the blink of an eye, something every human feared. Anybody would have said that man was carrying the world on his shoulders and had probably been born with the fate of Atlas carved into his lifeline.

He was the first one to speak again, unable to sit in silence any longer. “I’m sorry. Let me try again.” (He was always trying).

There was another long pause as he gathered his composure once more. He was tired. He felt vulnerable. Stripped bare and laid out for the world to see.

 _I love you I love you I love you_.

Because he did, didn’t he. Why else would Aziraphale’s opinion mean so much to him? Why else would he fear his rejection more than he had feared Falling?

When he had fallen it had been sudden and unexpected and he had blamed Her. Now he had a choice. Everything he’d say would be turned over in the angel’s head. Examined thoroughly to come to a conclusion. He didn’t want to know the outcome but he owed his friend the truth. Even if it tasted bitter in his mouth.

“Long before Eden, there were the stars. We are made from them and they are made from us, did you know?” (Before the apocalypse, he often wished that should he die, he’d be able to go back to them. He never told anyone that.)

Aziraphale was listening to him, already captivated the way he always was by a good story. Crowley’s mouth quirked up at the sight. (Could one call this temptation? Was it simply love?) He took it as a sign to continue.

“I used to be alone at the beginning. I never really fit in with any of the angels. Sadly, I never really fit in with the demons either, did I?” another attempt at a joke. This time Aziraphale smiled and it reached his eyes. It was good that they were sitting. Crowley would’ve fallen again otherwise. How traitorous hearts were. (Maybe Beezlebub had been right, calling him a traitor. Evil or not, they’d always had a razor sharp mind.)

He remembered Heaven before he was cast out, the Love of God that was programmed into them from the start. He had loved Her too, once. (He never stopped, not really. He only thought he had.) Apart from Her, what else had Heaven been? A place really, just like any other, except it felt empty. He had known from the start, that there must be more to existence than this. She had to have planned more than meadows where they’d gaze at the stars they were creating and worktables where they helped making Creation. He'd been the only one who had dared to question Her.

“ _What are they for?” He gazed at the humans She was making, who looked just like angels but strangely faded. Less celestial._

_“A Garden. And then the world.”_

_"What will they do?”_

_“Everything. One day you must love them, more than me.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Don’t ask too many questions, Crowley, time will answer them all_.”

She hadn’t invented time yet. Her answer had confused him more than given comfort. It hadn’t sated his curiosity, so he went to other angels.

“I wanted to know if they didn’t understand Her either. It wasn’t my intention to make them fall.”

At last, his true confession. He’d never been evil. Just scared of the feelings that were taking hold in his chest.

“Everything went very fast then. Lucifer heard my words and shouted them into the void, angels started hearing him and he’d point them towards me, who had spoken with God and was turned away. It made anger and fear spring into their minds and soon many were whispering among each other about what went on in Her mind. It didn’t take long for Her to notice the general agitation in our prayers.”

Aziraphale spoke up.

“I remember the trials. I don’t think I saw you there, though.”

“I was the first. It wasn’t a public trial; I heard those took place later. Michael had to cast out Lucifer herself, did you know? They were lovers once. Every time I’ve seen her after that, she never seemed the same.”

It left Aziraphale reeling, a carefully placed distraction. The truth was, he didn’t want to talk about his trial. The way God had summoned him and given him a look he only could describe as sadness. How could he hate Her, when there was an apology in the face he couldn’t recall anymore? Each time he searched for it in his memories it slipped away from his fingers, the same way you can’t trap sun rays in a jar. He was merely a container now that was too limited to hold Her light inside it.

Then the loneliness, the confusion, the scorching pain until the next demons came and he was elected King of Hell because no one else knew what to do. Lucifer was gone, discorporated as far as they knew. Crowley couldn’t sense him anymore. He wondered if Michael had known what she was about to do to her lover.

He had been the only one left with wings almost as beautiful as they had been before, just the colour of soot and obsidian, of midnight and coal. They thought it was a symbol of his strength. He had felt sorry for them, regret and anger fighting inside him for dominance and he had chosen anger first. It gave him the power to push through, to lead them, to make sure they had something to do because the worst was to have nothing.

He used Lucifer’s form as a disguise to trick them and gave the order for him to be the first to enter the Garden. He elected Beezlebub to run hell when he was gone, spread the information that Lucifer was busy turning the wheels of fate in their favour and Crowley was his right-hand man. It was easier for him that way, as ultimately he despised hell. (He hated himself the most and everything he’d stood for there.)

He recounted these events as if he were detached from it all, voice monotone and ashamed. He was a man awaiting the last judgment from someone who meant more to him than all life in the universe. He wished he could believe that things would take a turn for the better. He ached for it, faith instead of all this doubt that was woven into his very essence.

“You saved the children in Mesopotamia, remember? You expanded the hull of the ship and helped them survive.” It was Aziraphale’s way to comfort him. An act of hidden good amidst all the wrongs he had done.

He thought back to how he'd explained it was to challenge Her, to show Her he could thwart Her plans. But Aziraphale knew him better than that and saw through his excuses. He didn't know if that thought left him giddy or more scared than he was before. It hadn't mattered in the end.

“It didn’t change anything. They just... died.” 

“No”, a faintly mumbled interjection.

“They barely lived a year. Died of an incurable disease, even though I kept feeding them and cleaned them up and everything.” There was a hint of scorn in his voice. He didn’t know at whom it was directed. He wiped his eyes.

“You did? Oh, Crowley, dear-“

“Please don’t say anything. It’s in the past. That’s just how She used to be. I mean she hasn’t been actively changing things around for a while has She?”

He almost didn’t hear the hurt undertone in the angel’s voice: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh, angel. How often have you wanted to turn back time?”

He didn’t expect the next words. “You know sometimes I wonder if you should’ve stayed an angel and I was meant to be the demon. You’ve always had a better moral compass than me and more virtues.” 

What kind of statement was that supposed to be? He chortled but it sounded more like a hack. 

“Are you really trying to say Satan is more heavenly than a principality? I don’t think so. But yes, heaven always cared more about who was willing to follow orders and oblige rather than those who deviated from them. Now don’t look at me like that, I’m not trying to attack you. Come on, Aziraphale, you never questioned Her. For a matter of fact, I think you still don’t. You only question me.” (Shit, he shouldn’t have let that last sentence slip. It meant too much.)

Emotions flitted so fast over his face that in the end, for the first time in centuries, Aziraphale’s expression was unreadable to him.

 _“I don’t read books”,_ he had mocked him. (What he didn’t say was “I don’t have to. Reading you is all I ever want to do.”)

There was a feeling bubbling up in his stomach that felt like bile and acid and some artists would paint as the boiling sulfur Crowley had first fallen into after being cast out from heaven. It rose up through his diaphragm and lodged itself in his throat, making each breath come out more laboured, every heave something flammable.

He didn’t notice he was staring at a mark on the plain carpet floor until Aziraphale cleared his throat. It was a remnant of wine they’d spilled the last time they sat here, on a happier occasion (as happy as Crowley could be, faking his sincerity. Of course he’d known Warlock wasn’t his son.)

Warlock had just turned seven and the angel was sure he was more heaven incarnate than hell incarnate and had wanted to celebrate after the gardener and the nanny were released earlier that day. Poor little Warlock had to go visit his grandfather and eat in a fine dining locality. It might have been Crowley’s doing that the child’s order had accidentally been messed up and he was served fries instead of black squid ink risotto, but who could tell? It didn’t matter. (It did, for Warlock. In his 30s the young man would still fondly thank the cook for his confusion and he’d yearn for a plate of fries that tasted as much as freedom as they did during that day).

“According to the stories, shouldn’t you have been God’s favourite then?”

He stares at the angel in shock. It isn’t the question he was expecting. To be honest, he wasn’t sure what to expect either way, but certainly not this. It was so typically Aziraphale to think about that, about God’s Love, instead of the fact that Crowley was ultimately undeserving of it.

However, Aziraphale always gave love freely, without thinking too much, without even noticing. A blessing to a young couple, a faithful smile or a reassuring nod to a lonely stranger. It made people do strange things, search for a job when they’d given up all hope or apologize to the estranged friend from their childhood they’d never stopped missing. He never understood how the angel did it. It stemmed from his unwavering faith in Her but nonetheless, it left him baffled. Forget about good deeds but even wrecking havoc didn’t come easy to him. (Every once in a while he felt spiteful and the pressure of hell made him buckle and he stopped the manufacturing of the common lightbulb for example. How was he supposed to know that more energy efficient models would come out of that?) It was terrible really, how he could do nothing the way he wanted to. Yet, he wished he could do this one thing right. At least answer one question correctly.

“I have forgiven her after all these years, you know”, he says instead, because he thinks that’s what the angel meant to ask in the first place. There used to be a special sort of hatred reserved just for Her but it had drained out of him, the way old Kings had busted barrels and poured wine over the streets in a show of power. It seeped away to bottoms he couldn’t reach anymore and in its place into the cracks he was filled with a desire he couldn’t name for many decades. He spoke without meaning to:

“I still don’t understand. I don’t think I ever will. Why should everybody who has free will suffer? What have all these people done to warrant all this war and hatred, why is the blood of innocents always spilled on the pavement? Where is Her justice? It is ineffable, just as you said when we first met.”

He wasn’t prepared for the shy squeeze of his hand. Finally, he lifts his gaze.

“Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman”, the angel quoted. 

Aziraphale smiles at him, the way he usually smiles at long-forgotten first editions and after the first sip of hot chocolate from his favourite Parisian café in winter. It warmed his frozen limbs and his spine slouches into a more comfortable, relaxed position. This is the Aziraphale he knows. For the first time since the beginning probably, he said the right thing.

He knows he still has many things to explain, he can read the _please do tell me more_ in the angel’s body. They have time now. He sees the forgiveness waiting for him in the future but also in the present and decides She couldn’t have hated him that much if she’d planned for Aziraphale entering his life. Maybe he had something to thank her for. (Too soon. Some wounds only heal slowly.)

They had time. Eternity seemed a bit less dull suddenly with the newfound knowledge that the angel surely wouldn’t leave him. Not that he had any signed contract to go by, but for now the weight of his palm resting in his hand had to be enough. Tennessee Williams had spun truth in his words. ‘Devils can be driven out of the heart by the touch of a hand on a hand, or a mouth on a mouth.’ Crowley certainly had never felt less devilish than in this moment. For the first time since the beginning, he felt the doubt in his heart recede and make place for something new.

Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “Finalmente il demone s’è innamorato! Ma che bella pittura tu sei, Anthony.” = Finally the demon has fallen in love! But what a beautiful picture you are, Anthony. (Excuse me if it’s wrong, my Italian’s a bit rusty)
> 
> IT'S HERE!!! Sorry for the long wait but I've been so busy recently and only had time to write some short drabbles. This is probably one of the few stories I've worked this hard on and loved so I really wanted it to be perfect. Alas, sometimes you just have to hope for the best and submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known. I really hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! And thank you all for your wonderful comments, they really gave me the motivation to finish this.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr @notfunctioningshipper!
> 
> !!! (There's going to be a Part 3 where Crowley has a talk with Adam)
> 
> Have a great day everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> Well there it is! I didn't think anyone would be interested in reading this but after the last drabble got so popular I decided to expand on it. This chapter is a bit more somber but the overall work is supposed to be something more humorous. Don't worry, the next chapter will be coming soon. Until then, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> You can text me on:  
> tumblr @notfunctioningshipper  
> twitter @crazyindira (it's a bit old and I'm more active on tumblr)


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